


Substititions and Additions

by maiNuoire



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst and Feels, But it's going to hurt first, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Happy Ending, Explicit Sexual Content, Feels, How Do I Tag, I promise, M/M, My First Fanfic, Substitues, Tags Are Hard, Tags May Change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-25
Updated: 2015-12-15
Packaged: 2018-05-03 07:27:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5282048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maiNuoire/pseuds/maiNuoire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In New York, while looking for Derek, Stiles meets Dale. Dale starts to fall for Stiles, Stiles is in a bad place, then, Dale meets Derek.</p><p>I'm new at this, sorry this summary is awful, but my editor said "OH GOD, THAT'S MAGIC," so the story itself is good, really.</p><p>Inspired by Drowning Man, by the_diggler, which you should totally read first</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Drowning Man](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4144437) by [the_diggler](https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_diggler/pseuds/the_diggler). 



> This is my first ever fan fic, so please let me know what you think. I am working on Chapter 2, which will be from Derek's perspective. Thanks in advance for your comments!
> 
> Drowning Man, by the_diggler, is lovely, and heartbreaking, and not very long, so you should read it first. If you decide not to, the general idea is that Stiles goes to New York to find Derek, and meets Dale Copper (the porn star) who looks an awful lot like Derek (when I figure out how, I'll post a picture of him, I want to do bad things with him.)
> 
> Dale is quite taken with Stiles, and things get sexy, and then sad.
> 
> Thanks for reading!

It was two months since that first night, and Dale finally felt like he and Stiles were together. The morning after that first time, waking up with Stiles wrapped lazily around him, legs tangled, his head tucked under Dale's chin, resting above his heart had been beautiful. The late morning sun leaking around the curtains, painting Stiles in golden stripes, his freckle dotted skin beautiful and glowing.

Stiles had woken slowly, nuzzling softly into Dale's shoulder, his long fingered hands sleepily scratching lazy patterns through his chest hair. And then, he froze. Stiles' entire body went still, and he pulled away a moment later; painfully slowly, as though afraid to break a spell, Stiles looked up at Dale through his freaking beautiful eye lashes and a flurry of emotions quickly danced across his face. Confusion and longing and (oh, no, please don't let his face settle on) heartbreak and loss and something Dale couldn't name, but made him ache.

In a blink, Stiles schooled his features into a pleasant, if not entirely warm, lazy smile. They'd exchanged good morning's, Dale's smile genuine, though strained on the edges by strange and unnameable emotion. They'd gotten through the morning after with minimal discomfort, though Stiles was not wholly present. As they showered, sharing lazy hand jobs, Stiles briefly held him like he was precious, pressing a long kiss into his neck, fingers of one hand threading into the hair at his nape, trembling as he came against their closely pressed stomachs. Dale had held him for a long moment, stroking the lean muscles of his back while gently massaging his shoulder and murmuring assurance and nonsense against his temple until Stiles pulled away, smiling at him shyly before turning away not quite fast enough for Dale to miss the lost look on his face.

Over a simple breakfast in Stiles' tiny kitchenette, Dale caught him staring at him fondly for brief moments, before Stiles caught himself and again schooled his features. 

It had taken a handful of days to convince Stiles to let him take him out to dinner, but now they had been seeing each other a few times a week for almost two months, and it was no longer Derek's name Stiles called when he came. It was still there in the middle of nightmares, and occasionally better dreams, where it was whispered sweetly in his sleep instead of gasped painfully into the dark.

The first time Stiles had whimpered Dale into the moonlight soaked darkness as he climaxed, face buried in Dale's neck, one hand clutching his hip in a grip that would likely bruise, the other buried in his hair, backed bowed of the mattress and his hips stuttering, panting and so fucking beautiful in his release, Dale had felt victorious. He tried to hide his joyful sob in the sound of his own orgasm. He was not entirely successful, if the way that Stiles moved them after, so they lie facing each other, still holding one another close, enough space between them to look, and for Stiles to gently hold his face, tracing his cheekbone with the thumb of his right hand, his whiskey colored eyes searching apologetically. It is then that Dale is certain of several things: that Stiles is totally unaware that he's been calling another man's name into the space between them for weeks; that he is quickly falling into something he won't name yet; and, painfully, that Stiles may never be able to feel that something for him.

But then, Stiles kissed him, a gentle press of lips, a hint of his tongue along his top lip, and he could feel the smile on Stiles' face like a question. So Dale kissed him back, keeping it gentle, an answer and an acceptance of his apology as well as whatever it is he had to give. He parted his lips, inviting Stiles' tongue with a quick swipe of his own as his hands found Stiles' face. The kiss deepened, but stayed gentle, hands exploring in what feels like new ways, he’d felt Stiles tense and the push and pull of their mouths and their bodies started to feel desperate. Stiles bit not quite teasingly at his bottom lip, started to fuck his tongue roughly into Dale's mouth, his arms clutching now, hips restless and demanding. Dale pushed away enough to look at him, tried to slow and gentle the desperate movements, couldn't help the sound he made at the look on Stiles' face, the tears streaking his cheeks luminous in the moonlit dark.

So Dale had moved over Stiles, held his arms down gently but firmly with one of his own, used enough pressure to reassure and to make his point, knowing full well that Stiles could throw him off at any time. He stroked Stiles' face, kissed his tightly shut eyelids, his nose, his cheeks. Kissed his mouth sweetly until he responded in kind, and then for a moment longer, because he could. He pushed briefly against his wrists and whispered a hushing sound into the hollow of Stiles' throat as he pulled his restraining hand away, licking softly into the space there, stroking his sides with teasing fingers as he painted a trail along Stiles' clavicle, to his beaded, pink nipples, brushed his stubble along his chest and his belly, adding color to the flush of arousal. 

He whispered nonsense and kissed promises into the skin of Stiles' hip at the tiny sounds and whimpered moans that fell from his parted lips. He groaned in relief at the feel of Stiles' hands seeking his skin, one resting on the back of his neck, a welcome pressure, the other gently squeezing his shoulder. Stiles stuttered a breathless "D-" and Dale tensed before it turned into his name, "Dale" falling from that beautiful mouth like a prayer, an apology, a plea and a thank you. Stiles' hands tracing all those things into his skin as surely as his moan.

Dale made his way finally to Stiles' cock, hard and leaking and beautiful, his hands traced Stiles' long legs in soothing lines as he licked a long stripe into the crease where Stiles' thigh met his groin, moved lower to suck one taut globe into his mouth, his own hips bumping against the mattress, seeking friction as Stiles moaned and panted and cursed a steady stream of ohfuckyes please pleaseplease Dale. And it's the broken plea of his name that gets him to stop teasing Stiles' shaft with little kitten licks and finally take the head of his erection into his mouth. They’d both sighed in relief as Stiles pushed slowly into Dale's willing throat, Stiles' hands tightening their grip as Dale began to move, bobbing his head and increasing the suction on each upstroke, swirling his tongue around the head and fluttering it just under the cap, against the heavy vein that is thrumming with energy there.

Stiles' hips started thrusting in time with Dale's movements, his balls drawing up tightly as his noises become louder and less coherent before he screamed nonsensically and came in several long spurts down Dale's throat. Dale sucked and licked gently at Stiles' softening shaft, helping to soothe the last restless thrusts and spasms, gathering the small trickle of come that escaped past his lips. Stiles reached for him and he went to him happily, let Stiles kiss him, licking traces of himself from Dale's mouth, taking Dale's cock in his hand and stroking him with something like reverence, his other hand holding Dale's head firmly yet gently, keeping him from breaking the kiss as Stiles' hand squeezed and pulled and stroked him with just the right amount of pressure and Dale's orgasm caught him almost by surprise, hips stuttering between stolen breaths as Stiles nibbled and kissed his jaw, his face, his ear, nuzzling against his stubble and humming contentedly.

Stiles did not cry out Derek's name in his sleep that night, though he did hold Dale until they woke, pressing kisses into his skin. 

 

So, not quite 2 weeks later, in a deli near a shooting location, when Dale hadn't seen Stiles in several days, stuck with phone calls and texts while he was working and Stiles was doing whatever it was he did, he hears "Order for Derek" he thinks it's some kind of weird ghost of memory colored by his growing ache to see the man who he was pretty sure he was falling for. But he can't help looking up at a strangely familiar man retrieving his sandwich and coffee. A small strangled sound escapes his lips and the man looks up, their eyes -what color are those eyes, even- meet and all the air in Dale's lungs leaves him in a rush. He gasps a choked "Derek?" The man, moves toward him with concern and confusion written in his features, impressively expressive eyebrows knitted together and Dale reaches for him, dimly aware how strange it is, how strange they must look, even as the man -Derek- catches his arm, his eyes searching his so similar to his own face.

"You alright, man?" Derek asks, steadying Dale with a strong arm. "Do we know-?"

Before Dale can stop himself, he blurts out "Stiles" before Derek even finishes asking, and the speed at which the emotions fly across Derek's face -that face- is startling.

His expression settles somewhere between hope, suspicion, and wariness as he slowly releases Dale's arm and takes a small step backwards. His eyebrows asking for answers before his lips do, he gestures to a small metal table and Dale nods his assent as they make their way to sit. Derek's eyes -seriously, what is that color?- stare at his a moment before he takes a deep breath and asks "How. Uh, how do you know," he draws another breath, it's shaky and Dale notices his hands tremble slightly where they rest on the table, "how do you know Stiles?" Stiles' name falls from his lips like something sacred, and Dale's heart aches.

"I think we have a lot to talk about." Dale's voice sounds far away and wrong to his own ears, and he wonders briefly if Derek can hear how his heart is beating painfully against his ribcage and how he's choking on unshed tears.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little bit of Derek's perspective.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for the response to my first ever fic! I noticed that some of my formatting (italics and such) didn't show up in the version that posted, so I'm trying to figure out how to address that, but I hope it didn't mess with the flow of the story (If anyone knows how to do that, help would be gratefully received!)
> 
> This one is from Derek's perspective, and came out of my brain entirely in present tense, so it may be a little odd to adjust to after the way the first one was written. I hope it isn't jarring, aftert a read through I decided I liked it, so I didn't go through and change it.
> 
> This is another rough one, lovelies, but if you noticed the SHINY NEW TAGS, there will be an eventual happy ending, so bear with me, because it's going to hurt while we work through it!
> 
> The posting schedule is likely to be slightly erratic, but I'm pretty obsessed with this at the moment, so for now it will likely remain frequent.
> 
> Also, when I get to 30 subscriptions, I will post sugary, fluffy Sterek goodness (it'll go up eventually, but I'll take a purposeful break from this if you encourage me with love. I'm a bit of a praise whore.)
> 
> Thanks for joining me on this little adventure!

Derek has been in New York for a while now. Finding distraction wherever he can, trying to forget, well, everything. Everyone. And generally avoiding any attempts at contact from anyone in Beacon Hills. 

Eventually, the calls, the texts, the emails, they taper off. They come sporadically now, mostly, except from his sister; he and Cora talk once a week. It keeps her from tracking him down, and, if he's honest, it helps Derek to stay sane. Keeps the grieving emptiness at bay.

When it gets bad, he replays his voicemails. Stiles’, usually. They started out casual, hopeful, “Hey, man, when you get back there's this new place you should take me for curly fries. They're amazing… l-we miss you, Der.” Every day, a new text or voice mail, every day for weeks.

Some lonely and curious.

“Derek, where are you?”

Some joking, well, Stiles’ version thereof.

“I saw the most beautiful dog at the park today, but he couldn't hold a candle to you, big guy!”

And the last one, the one Derek would listen to over and over, wrap around himself in the dark of his shitty apartment that smelled like dust and the neighbors cooking instead of home. Home was in the voice that played through the tiny speaker on his phone. The voice laced through with pain and anger, instead of the sarcasm and affectionate snark that it was accustomed to. The too small voice breaking and tripping over his name. Breaking his heart.

“Derek, come home. Please, Derek. We- fuck, I need you to come home. I need you.”

Then, “I love you. Please. I never got to say it.”-it's angrier, now, laced with heartbreak; Derek forces himself to listen, even though it tears at him- “How can you make me say it to your goddamned voice mail, Derek? Where are you.”

They came everyday. Until they stopped. He still listens everyday.

He tries to push the memory of home away. The memory of pack, of family, of dog jokes and strong arms and honey-whiskey colored eyes.

He goes to dark bars, and clubs with too much bass and not enough light. He tries to get lost in the thumping of shitty house music and the smell of too many bodies full of too much alcohol and desire. He picks up the occasional one night stand, only to realize he has inevitably gravitated to a tall, lithe body with Autumn eyes and dark hair and smooth, milky skin.

On one such night, he does it on purpose after replaying Stiles’ “I love you" a dozen times. He scans the dance floor, finds a man with just the right build, slim hips and broad shoulders, moving with an easy sensuality and a little too much grace to be right, but the light catches his face, head thrown back, the long line of his neck tilted invitingly, his smile wide and his cheeks mole dotted; eyes almost -almost-exactly right.

He weaves through the crowd, intent clear on his face. It parts easily around him, no more than a few wary glances tossed his direction. They're only human, but he's out of control and something of his predatory nature must shine through. He spots the boy- the man, his prey and maybe his salvation for the evening- he's laughing and his arms are wrapped around himself, one behind his head, grasping his neck, the other across his chest, resting lightly on his heart. 

He steps into his line of sight, letting a smirk settle over his mouth, pulling the old reliable mask on, the one that only one person ever really saw past, helped him shed. He shoves those thoughts aside forcefully, letting his eyes caress the man's body and then settle on his -almost right- eyes. They dilate with interest, and he catches a rush of arousal in his scent.

Derek moves forward, pressing gently into the man's space, shaping the long lines of his body against his own with slow, eager hands, coaxing the man to respond in kind, not increasing the speed or pressure of his hands or the gyration of his hips until his partner for the night pushes against him enthusiastically. They dance for a few moments, Derek closes his eyes and leans into him, avoiding spoiling the illusion by keeping away from the man's neck, where the scent, the taste of his sweat, would be wrong. He focuses on the feel of lean muscles under his hands and long fingers on his hips.

He is about to lean in and invite the man to find a dark corner, they can't go back to his place, he can't stand anyone else's scent to fill his space; it can't ever be the scent he wants there, so it can't be another. The man surprises him by beating him to it, and at the tickle of his breathy “let's get out of here, yeah?” against the shell of his ear he struggles not to recall the last time someone had whispered endearments to him. He pulls away slightly to nod his agreement and turns to lead the man away to a darkened hallway in the rear of the club where he had spent a handful of nights on his knees, or against a wall, pretending.

The man pulls Derek against him, sandwiching himself between Derek and the wall, heedless of bystanders and without hesitation or shame. He uses those long fingers, wrapped around Derek's neck to pull him forward and press their mouths together with just the right amount of pressure, licking at the seam of Derek's mouth, seeking his tongue; Derek happily obliges, and the taste isn't right, isn't home, but it is good. Rum, cola, something sweet and a little spicy that must just be the man's personal taste. He sinks into the kiss, licking into the man's mouth with rising need. The body feels so close to what he wants, if he can get a deep enough taste, maybe it could be right, too.

Derek slots their legs together, so the man is straddling Derek's thigh, so his own growing erection can find friction against the man's hip. As they kiss and rut against one another, their hands roam. Derek finds the man's ass with eager fingers, kneading the firm flesh and guiding his hips into an easy rhythm, using the small moans that the man makes as a guide. The man anchors one hand in Derek's hair, the other sneaks under his shirt to tease a nipple into hardness with his thumb, adding his forefinger to roll the pebbled nub between his fingers, drinking in Derek's gasp with a grin he can feel against his lips. He trails his hands down Derek's chest, traces his abs lightly, drawing goosebumps across the sensitized skin.

Their hips don't stop, the thrusts grow harder, a purposeful grind, gentle rocking circles made rough by intent and desire and Derek's growing desperation. His growing panic. He's holding the man close now, one arm at his nape, the other clutching around his waist, his tongue searching for a memory in great sweeping licks.

The man pulls away to catch his breath, he holds Derek's face and looks at him through lust dazed eyes, an incongruous understanding smile on his kiss bruised mouth, he looks at Derek like he's not a stranger and something in Derek breaks a little, or maybe starts to knit together, and his hips stutter. The man leans to whisper to him again- “let me give you what you need"- as he strokes gentling hands along Derek's face and against his ribs. As he slows their dancing hips and kisses sweetly over Derek's cheek, his jaw, the corner of his mouth.

What Derek hears is “let me take care of you, Der” in a voice that sounds like home, instead of like too much shouting over the music; what Derek hears is a memory, but it's enough because it's all he has. So he answers the searching gaze and the curiously lifted eyebrow with a small, apologetic smile and an almost chaste press of lips that turns into a gentle glide of tongues, breaking softly as the man slides down his body. As he undoes Derek's fly, Derek hears Stiles’ plea and it’s all he has, so he holds it tightly.

So he squeezes his eyes shut a little tighter, and threads his fingers in the man's hair and cradles his jaw as he takes him in his mouth, sucking gently. Flicking and swirling his tongue around and around, bobbing slowly, increasing the suction gradually. Teasing Derek's balls with one hand while the other returns to his eagerly beading nipples. Derek holds on tighter and tries not to thrust too aggressively into the man's throat. He groans around Derek's cock, and the vibration makes his balls draw up tightly. The man grabs his ass and encourages him to fuck his mouth, Derek obliges and the man slips one hand to his own erection, freeing himself from his jeans and stroking at the same pace he's set for Derek. It isn't much longer until Derek is panting out a warning and pulling away from the slick, wet heat of the guy's mouth angling just so to avoid marking him -that's for someone else- and watches the man jacking his admittedly beautiful cock as he coaxes his own into the most satisfying orgasm he's had since leaving home. It takes him a moment to realize that he came with Stiles’ name on his lips, and the vision of almost rightness of the almost Stiles in front of him coming, his beautiful, almost beloved face stunning in the throes of orgasm, Derek's hand still threaded through his hair.

He grins up at Derek, pupils still blown, sweat dotting his temple, and a drop of come on his cheek. Derek knows it's his and he quickly wipes it away, the gesture hopefully coming across fondly instead of as panic. The man looks grateful and turns into Derek's palm, placing a kiss there. He stands, placing a kiss Derek's cheek as he fixes his pants, and rubs a thumb across Derek's stubble before whispering a quick “thank you,” and a hesitant “it'll be ok" into his ear. He must look startled, if the sympathetic look on the man's face before he walks away is any indication. All Derek hears is an echo of memory.

He's been here a while, become accustomed to the lack of familiar smells, so when he walks into a deli a few days after his encounter with the almost right man, the hint of familiar scent is a shock. And it's not just any scent, it's home. It's Stiles. It's second hand and days old. It's torture as he looks around desperately for a trace of the source. It's too faint, and Derek convinces himself that it was just a memory, too.

He stands by the prep counter, greedily soaking up the faint traces of the scent. When his order is called, there's a soft gasp, not much more than a quick inhale, but it is accompanied by an increased heartbeat, and an echo of his name. A slight intensifying of that beloved smell. He looks up and meets a stranger's strangely familiar face. It's like a fun house reflection of his own, close, almost right. He is reminded briefly of the man whose name he purposely didn't get, the parody of his desires. The man in front of him now, the not quite mirror of him, is looking at him with a mixture of curiosity, confusion, and fear. He smells like anxiety and wears a familiar plaid button up, open over a tight t-shirt and rolled up to his elbows. He takes an accidental looking step toward Derek, it's a stumble, really, and before Derek realizes he is in front of the man, steadying him with hands on his elbows; he realizes the man's shirt is the source of the smell of home, and his own heartbeat speeds up, he can feel his wolf grow restless at the hint of home and pack and Stiles, anxious that it's not the real thing.

Derek manages a “You alright, man. Do we know-,” before the man gasps a broken sounding “Stiles!” And Derek feels the earth shift.   
Something a little like hope and a lot like uncertainty settles in his chest, he feels it on his face. He and the man wordlessly agree to sit at a table, one as far away from the other customers as possible in the small space of the deli’s seating area. The proximity of the stranger allows him to study their similarities, to search for all the ways they're different. The smell is still faint, but the nearness makes it tantalizingly, torturously easy to breathe in.

His hands tremble, his whole body feels like it's shaking. The man -he should ask his name, but he's afraid, like it will make the teasing, broken little piece of home less real, or maybe more so- searches his face the same way Derek searches his, and Derek somehow manages to ask “How do you know-,” he takes a stuttering breath that he intends to steady his voice, but fails to do so before attempting to say the name he only allows himself to say in the dark with his eyes closed, “how do you know Stiles.” He not sure he manages to make it a question as the name falls from his lips, the fondness and the longing and the regret wrapped up in that single syllable obvious even to his own ears.

“I think we have a lot to talk about,” rushes out of the other man on a strangled breath. Derek can feel his hurt like weight in his own chest, he radiates with it, and Derek knows that whatever comes next, it's going to send aching ripples through three lives.

He continues, almost a whisper, “I'm not sure where to start?” 

Derek offers a still unsteady hand, and an official introduction, “I'm Derek. We'll take it slow, yeah-,” he leaves the question hanging, an attempt at offering control as the man's rabbiting heart moves from an anxious pace to a worrying one.

A deep breath, and a slow exhale, and a cough to clear an emotion clogged throat, and finally “Dale, I'm Dale,” and an outstretched hand meets Derek's own.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek and Dale have a lot to talk about. Some Stiles and Derek flashbacks. Porny feelings. Much angsting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this was supposed to be more of a split perspective, but then Derek apparently wanted to have many smutty flashbacks. And also feelings. So Dale's perspective will be most of the next chapter, and soon we'll get a bit of Stiles' finally.
> 
> I've figured out a happy ending for everyone, but it's going to be a bumpy ride, my dears; I hope you stick with me!
> 
> Also, I hope to get on an actual update schedule, but I can't promise anything (especially at holiday time). I have been a little distracted writing a few other Sterek fics that I will post here as soon as they're perfected.
> 
> Please let me know what you think of the chapter/fic. Your support gives me the warm fuzzies (and a kick in the ass to keep writing!)

_A lot to talk about_ seems like such a gross understatement, Derek thinks briefly begged agreeing with a soft scoff and a “Yeah, I think we do.”

 

“How long have you and Stiles been…,” Derek can't finish the question, both his wolf and his fragile human heart rebelling at the idea of Stiles with anyone else.

 

“Just shy of two months. But I'm not sure we're really together. I-" Dale can't finish either, the reality of the brevity of his time with Stiles and the possible depth of his feelings hitting him all at once and stealing his breath momentarily.

 

“You love him.” Derek says it like it's a statement and not a question, and Dale isn't sure if he is supposed to argue, if he even can. Isn't totally sure if it's true. _Shit, who is he trying to fool?_

 

“He still l-,” Dale takes a deep, gasping breath, suddenly winded, and his brain cruelly supplies an increasingly painful list of ways to end that sentence: _He still loves you. He still dreams of you, calls for you, prays your name to Morpheus. He still aches for you. He still keeps me around because I have almost the right face. He still lo-_ and at that last full thought, that last sharp stab, he sobs around the knot in his throat and trips over the realization that he'd tried so hard to ignore.

 

He briefly wonders if he should give up now, before it's worse; leave Stiles to become a memory before he leaves a tall, lean hole in the middle of Dale's heart.

 

Derek sits across from him, desperate for the end of that aborted sentence, but he uses Dale's lightly panting breath, his quickly darted away glances, his stuttering heartbeat and the barely concealed panic and _aching_ that is radiating off the other man to fill in the blank. He's pretty sure he guesses all the possible endings by tracking the way Dale's scent changes with his labored breath.

He does.

He wants to let it fill him with something like hope, but Dale's misery makes that feel too much like cruelty.

 

Derek's sharp intake of breath startles Dale out of his daze and Dale comes back to himself certain only that he isn't ready to give up yet. But he knows he can't keep Derek from the man that has unwittingly brought them together.

 

“That's not what I asked,” Derek says gently, his hand hovering slightly as though he intends to offer comfort but isn't sure it's welcome. Dale glances at it, his face softening at the gesture. As Derek settles his hand back on the table, clasping it's twin tightly as though it will hold him together, Dale is overcome with the need to know this man whose ghost he'd been living with for the last seven weeks. And perhaps learn more about the man he was maybe falling in love with as well.

 

“When did you two meet?” Dale asks gently, like remembering doesn't open a door Derek tries to keep firmly shut.

 

Still, he can't keep the painful fondness from his voice or his expression as he answers. “I was almost 21 when he stumbled into my life. Stiles was sixteen, and he was,” he stops briefly as the memories flood his senses, searching for the words to describe the boy that the man he loves once was, “he was beautiful.” It feels inadequate, even as it's true, he huffs out a humorless laugh through a genuine but small smile as he continues; “he was sixteen and all sharp angles, and sarcasm, and curiosity. He wasn't nearly as naive as he should have been at his age, and he looked at me like he knew all my secrets. Smiled like he had something to say that you wanted to know. And I-,” he must pause too long, too caught up in remembering, because Dale smiles sadly and interjects.

 

“You fell in love,” he says gently, like it's the only possible outcome. And Derek does laugh then, it's unexpected and foreign sounding, but real.

 

“No. Well, probably. But I was _terrified_. And we mostly pretended to hate each other for a long while. He got me arrested,” Dale raises a questioning eyebrow at this but Derek waves it off with a dismissive flap of his hand and a shake of his head, and a “long story,” before he moves on, caught in the flow of cherished memories long suppressed, “we fought constantly. Bickered and sniped and just generally grumbled at each other. And then, we somehow were...friends.

 

I don't really know when I realized I had feelings for him,”  though looking back, there are a hundred little moments that must have been him falling in love: small smiles shared while researching the latest monster, eye rolls over the epic disaster of Scott and Allison's early days, helpless laughter at another awful joke. “One day, about a year after we met, we were having an argument,”- because of course that's when it would happen for them-”and he pushed me against a wall,” which would be hilarious if Dale only knew-”and I realized I never wanted to kiss anyone as badly as I wanted to kiss Stiles in that moment.” So he had, he had leaned forward and pressed his lips to Stiles’, pushing all his hope into the action, and when Stiles had caught up and parted his lips just a little with a soft gasp, and gently, _so gently_ , taken Derek's bottom lip between his and pulled ever so slightly with his teeth, everything in Derek's world righted itself, even as it started spinning out of his control. It was surprisingly gentle as mid-fight kisses go, until it wasn't.

 

The intensity had built slowly but steadily, with increasing pressure and quick swipes of tongue and exploring hands. The soft noises escaping between them building to something just shy of desperate as they tangled themselves around each other, arms and legs grasping and winding, hips moving in tandem until they had to pull away to catch their breath. They had held each other a long time after, foreheads pressed together, staring and searching one another's gaze, cradling each other's faces and bodies, panting into the small space between them.

 

Derek realizes he's been lost in remembering while Dale looks at him, full of understanding; he clears his emotion clogged throat and smiles apologetically, “But he was still seventeen, I was almost five years older, he was the Sheriff's kid and I- had baggage.” Derek of course doesn't mention the struggle with his wolf, the need and the instinct to claim, the knowledge that Stiles couldn't, _shouldn't_ , be confronted with the idea of bonding that way. The pain of finding your mate and being unable to claim and mark and shout it from the rooftops.

 

“We decided to try, and we told his dad; that was important, to both of us, his blessing. But again, sheriff, underage son, older man-there may have been unsubtle reminders of access to firearms and not so veiled promises of violence,” Derek laughs, remembering the sheriff squeezing his shoulder, calmly saying _“Son, I think you're a good man, despite everything, but that boy is my whole world, and if you break his heart I will make sure no one will ever find you. But, please, don't let him break yours either. You  deserve to be as happy as I think you make him.”_ The sheriff had hugged him then, briefly, and as Derek returned the embrace he had felt something shift in his heart, like a puzzle piece sliding back into place. As he pulled back, Stiles’ dad added _“And if I see any er, funny business, I'll make your life very difficult. He's eighteen in a few months, the wait won't kill either of you.”_ A startled laugh had escaped Derek, and he’d nodded a quick _“Yes, sir.”_

 

“Waiting for his birthday was torture,” Derek laughs. Exquisite, incredible torture. Now that Derek is remembering, he can't stop: _Stiles straddling his lap on the couch in the Stilinski’s living room, making out like it was their last chance, rutting against each other with insistent rolls of their hips, Derek's fingers holding Stiles waist hard enough to leave bruises, Stiles fucking his mouth with his agile tongue, moaning against his lips, his neck, breath stuttering wetly in Derek's ear. Coming almost in unison, clutching Stiles to his chest and greedily inhaling the scent of their passion. Nights when the sheriff worked late, curled up naked in Stiles’ not big enough bed, kissing slowly, hands stroking over sleep-warmed skin, soft, exploring lips. Promises and endearments whispered between kisses, long fingered hands around his cock, the hot weight of Stiles’ in his palm, whimpered curses and “Yes, Der, just like that. Please, babe, please” and “I love you". Stiles between his legs after hours of trading kisses and teasing touches, his tongue laving the strip of skin behind his balls, swirling around his hole, pushing inside and taking Derek apart. His long, capable fingers eagerly searching for that bundle of nerves while the other hand rubs soothing circles against Derek's stomach and he whispers “I've got you baby. Let me take care of you. You're so fucking beautiful, Derek,” and licks into his body. Stiles kissing away the tears that come with his orgasm and the broken pieces of his heart that mended with every promise kissed and caressed and pressed into his flesh. Stiles’ taste in his tongue, his come in his throat, the deliciously warm, heavy feel of Stiles’ cock in his mouth. The pressure of Stiles’ strong, muscled thighs clenching around his dick, the head catching ever so slightly on his rim, nudging the softness of his sack as he rocked his hips tantalizingly slowly against Stiles, pulling low moans from them both; all the intimacies and magical moments they had before they ever got inside each other. Stiles’ smile, his post orgasm babbling, his non sequitur pop culture references, his beautiful amber colored eyes, unflinchingly locked on Derek's, his laughter, the feel of him in Derek's arms, the way his heart never stuttered when he said “I love you.”_

 

Derek can't stop remembering, and it _aches_. He doesn't realize he's crying until Dale is gently saying his name and clasping his hand in both of his, stroking calming lines with his thumb.

 

Dale smiles at him, squeezes his hand before taking one of his own back to offer Derek a napkin. His smile comes easy, easier than Derek's own ever did, and Derek wonders for a moment if Stiles is better off with Dale's easy smile and effortlessly offered comfort (not that Derek could ever withhold comfort from Stiles,) but it's just for a moment, because he's let himself remember now, been reminded of the scent of _home_ and _mate_. And he knows that if there's a chance to have a small piece of that again, he has to take it. He just hopes that there is a chance, and that he can take it without destroying the man in front of him.

 


End file.
